


Sacrament: Tynged

by Tenukii



Series: Sacrament [2]
Category: Dream Cycle - H. P. Lovecraft, Inside Llewyn Davis (2013), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The King in Yellow - Robert W. Chambers
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Christian Character, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dreams, F/M, Inspired by Music, Jewish Character, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Spells & Enchantments, Witch Curses, Witch Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-03-28 10:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenukii/pseuds/Tenukii
Summary: Sequel to “Sacrament.”  Novice witch hunter Al Cody’s first assignment is to investigate Llewyn Davis, a grumpy bard rumored to be casting spells with songs sung in Welsh.  At the same time, Llewyn is searching for his twin cousin Poe Dameron, whom he hasn’t seen since they were boys and their mothers were executed as witches.  Unbeknownst to him, Poe is living nearby with his soulmate, witch Kylo Ren, and Kylo's cursed cat familiar Hux.





	1. Chapter 1

I hear you weep so far from me  
I taste your tears like you're next to me  
And I know my weak prayers are not enough to heal  
The ancient wounds so deep and so dear  
The revelation is of hatred and fear  
-“The Sacrament,” H.I.M.

\--

Al Cody did not become a witch hunter out of any great hatred or fear of witches.  He simply yearned for a life filled with exciting travel and adventure rather than sedate study and trade, which was what his parents had planned for him.  So to get away from their plans—and from his parents, for that matter—he left home for the largest nearby city, where he changed his name, bought a Bible, and studied the New Testament until he thought he knew it well enough to pass the tests to become a witch hunter.

If Al had been a decade younger, he might have said he’d run away from home, but by the time he finally made up his mind to go, he was hardly a boy anymore.  That too had a lot to do with why he chose the profession he did.  He was too old to go to sea for the first time and learn how to be a sailor (besides, he got seasick every time he so much as set foot on a boat), and his morals were too well established for him to have any success as a highwayman or bounty hunter.  Not only was he too moral, he was far too kind as well.

In fact, Al wasn’t so sure he’d even make a very good witch hunter, at least when he first started his new life.  Not that he worried he couldn’t pass the tests—he knew the Mikra backwards and forwards, and he picked up the New Testament easily enough; he even found most of it agreeable.  Instead, Al feared he wouldn’t be capable of the physical demands of the profession.  Before leaving home, he had a reputation for being bookish, which wasn’t helped by his gangling limbs and tall, scrawny figure.  Women paid him little notice, a fact that concerned Al’s mother greatly and Al not at all. . . until he started really considering what activities hunting witches might entail.

The physical qualities women admired in a man would be particularly useful for those activities: strong, muscular arms and legs in case he had to perform some of the more distasteful tests like dunking or rock piling; speed and endurance for combat; grace and balance for hours spent on horseback; a keen eye and good aim for shooting.  Even the more aesthetic qualities might be helpful, for a handsome face could go far in charming an accused witch into submitting to testing.

But Al was awkward and clumsy and ugly.  He wasn’t good with horses or guns; he couldn’t run fast or for a long time, and he couldn’t lift heavy weights.  He could ask questions and poke suspicious blemishes with needles and listen to recitations of Scripture, but Al feared he would be unable to handle any of the more strenuous tasks the job might entail.

 _And as for charm,_ Al thought as he lay awake long into his first night in the city, _it would probably take a magic spell to give me any charm in the first place._   Al had never known how to put on any sort of façade or how to be anything but honest, and his bluntness had kept him from advancing socially as much as his appearance had.  Still, that appearance didn’t help.  His large nose meant that no matter what he changed his name to, Al could never completely hide his true heritage, and his ears and mouth were equally oversized.  If he had been more muscular, his height and large hands and feet might have seemed more proportionate, but as things stood, even he thought he looked ridiculous.

 _This may be the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made in my whole life,_ Al told himself that sleepless night, _but there’s no turning back now. I have to try, and if I fail at becoming a hunter, I’ll just have to learn how to be something else instead._

So for the few weeks Al lived in the city, he walked the streets when he wasn’t learning the Christian Bible, and slowly, he built up his strength and endurance.  He hit upon the idea of strengthening his arms as well by repetitive lifting of some heavy object, so he snuck a cobblestone up to the small room he rented and practiced with that.  When Al decided he had studied enough to pass the witch hunter tests, he prepared to leave the city: he purchased a pistol, a horse, and the tack to ride it.  Then he returned his cobblestone to its rightful place in the street and bid it farewell before setting out for the several days’ journey to the Hunters’ Council where he would truly leave behind Arthur Milgrum, merchant, and become Alfred Cody, witch hunter.

Al took his time traveling to the council.  His efforts to improve his strength in the city had gone so well, he decided to put the same amount of effort toward learning better horsemanship.  The horse he’d bought was a fairly gentle gelding who proved to be patient with Al’s clumsiness, and by the time he arrived at the council, Al could keep seated in the saddle at any gait and even when jumping.  He also practiced his marksmanship with the new pistol.  While Al did eventually reach the point of feeling he could defend himself with the gun, he never became completely comfortable with it.

The Hunters’ Council impressed him: in a land where most buildings were constructed of wood, it had been crafted of stone and towered over the landscape.  Despite coming from a background of relative wealth and privilege, Al was a humble man, and he was well-accustomed to being scorned by Christians for his ethnicity; therefore, he could scarcely believe it when the members of the council greeted him with respect.  Perhaps he really had fooled them just by changing his name, he mused, or perhaps they were so desperate to recruit more witch hunters, they didn’t care that he was a Jew.

Whatever their reasons for welcoming him, the council tested Al the very next day.  To his amazement, they first asked if he could read and write, and offered an oral exam if he could not.  The fact that he was literate seemed to be a great mark in his favor.  Al completed the written test quickly and was informed by the end of the day that he had passed.  Just like that, he became a member of the Hunter’s Council, conditional upon the completion of his training under an experienced hunter.

That hunter was a lean, venal man who called himself Grievous.  Like Al, he was tall and lanky and ugly, but a dire injury at some point had given him a permanent stooped posture and scuttling movement, and he was plagued with frequent fits of coughing and wheezing.  Al pitied him somewhat, even though the older man could be as cruel as Al was kind.  Yet Grievous never mistreated Al in the several weeks they worked together; although he sometimes ran out of patience, Grievous grew frustrated with his own failing body as often as he did with Al’s ineptitude, and Al did learn a lot from watching the older hunter test—and sometimes condemn—accused witches.

Al never did figure out exactly why Grievous had joined the Hunters’ Council.  He made no secret of the fact that he did not believe in the Christian God, or in any others, apparently; and Al was startled to discover that Grievous’s superiors on the council didn’t particularly care that he was an atheist.  When Al rather timidly asked Grievous in private if he even believed in witches, the older man laughed until a coughing fit wracked his twisted body.

“Witches!” Grievous wheezed in his deep, gravelly voice when he could speak again.  “Magic’s real, boy, I can tell you that much.  And there’s people can use it—the Dark magic, the Light magic, and the Wild magic.  Some what can use all three.”  He shrugged his broad, hunched shoulders and declared, “You can call ‘em witches if you want, witches or cunning folk or good walkers. . . doesn’t matter.  But yes, they’re real.  Don’t ever doubt that.”

So Grievous believed in witches, and he didn’t hunt them for religious reasons.  He clearly appreciated the salary the council paid him (and the additional tributes he received from grateful townsfolk, not to mention the bribes he sometimes got from those falsely accused who could afford it), but Al knew that for a man with Grievous’s lack of morals, far more lucrative careers existed.  And while Grievous did seem to enjoy combat as long as he was winning, he disappointed Al by proving to be a complete coward when outmatched.  All in all, Grievous was no one to admire, but Al accepted him for what he was and assumed he had his own secret reasons for becoming a witch hunter, just as Al himself did.

After a little over a month of Al shadowing him, Grievous decided the younger man had enough experience to set out on an assignment of his own.  Their superior, a female hunter named Phasma, agreed, although she expressed some reluctance to give Al the very next assignment they received.  Al generally felt inclined to follow Phasma’s advice; the fact that she was a woman did not make him respect her any less, since his grandmother, followed by his mother, had been the highest authority in Al’s own family.  He knew that most other men felt differently, but few on the council showed Phasma any defiance, quite possibly because they were frightened of her.  She towered over them all, even Al and Grievous when he stood upright, and she could probably out-fight them all, as well.

Grievous, however, didn’t hesitate to scoff at her hesitation: “Why shouldn’t Al take this assignment?”  He waved the scrap of parchment in his bony hand, then slid it to Al across the broad table where the three of them sat in the council’s meeting room.  Al looked down at it but couldn’t really read the scrawl of ink well enough to make out the target’s name.

“He could be trouble.  Master Cody, I would not be sending you out after this one on your own, if not for an urgent matter that’s come up in another settlement,” said Phasma.  “One of our other hunters has written asking for my assistance, and based upon what he’s told me, I feel it’s imperative for Master Grievous and me to go to him as soon as possible.  We’ll be on our way tomorrow, so you’ll have to handle this other assignment, as much as its target concerns me.”  As she spoke, Phasma sat upright in her chair, hands folded on the table in front of her.  In contrast, Grievous hunched forward, beetle-like, as he chuckled.

“Really?  He’s a _bard_ ,” Grievous sneered.  “How much trouble could one little songbird be?”

“Did you even read the report?”  Phasma spared Grievous a disdainful glance, then turned her blue-grey eyes on Al.  Al swallowed hard.  It wasn’t that her face looked cold or unfeeling; in fact, on another woman, he might have considered her features to be pleasant, or even. . . cute.  But something about her bearing, her manner of speaking—and her height, prowess, and rank—made Al think of her as almost superhuman.

“Master Cody,” Phasma said, “what concerns me is that we have received several reports concerning this same man over the past few months, and they have come from settlements spanning a wide area—he’s traveled quite far.”

“What has he done?” asked Al with a worried frown.

Grievous drummed his claw-like fingertips on the tabletop and growled, “Probably nothing more insidious than overstaying his welcome.  When a lazy, untalented bard won’t move along, just start blaming him for every stillbirth and failed crop in the place, and he’ll leave town pretty quickly.”

“Quiet!” Phasma snapped, and somewhat to Al’s surprise, Grievous fell silent.  Phasma continued telling Al, “The reports offer no definitive proof that this bard _is_ a witch, but they all charge that he has cast spells.  These claims have been made by enough people, in enough disparate locations, to keep me from believing they were _all_ falsified.”  She sighed and added, “Of course, there’s some doubt.  There always is, or they wouldn’t need _us_.”

Phasma brushed her forelock of short, blond hair back from her eyes then pointed at the scribbled name on the report she’d given Al.  “You probably can’t read that—Master Ackbar’s handwriting is atrocious—but the bard’s name is Llewyn Davis.  He’s part Welsh, as you’d guess from the name, and as such, he sings in Welsh sometimes.  Those making the accusations say those songs are actually spells.”

“Just because he sings in a language they don’t understand, he must be casting spells?” Al muttered.  He’d heard before of the same charges being made about rabbis who conducted rituals in Hebrew.

Phasma shrugged and admitted, “The charges do seem rather ignorant, but all the reports include evidence of strange happenings occurring wherever Davis and his music go.  Just often enough to make the rumors stick—and just strange enough for you to take care, Master Cody.  I don’t want the council to lose you to a witch on your very first assignment.”

She gave him a tight, slightly grim smile that made Al blush all the same; then she continued, “You’re to locate Davis and determine whether or not these rumors have merit.  He was last seen in Winnisimmet and said to be moving on to Malden next.  If you miss him there, track him until you catch up.”

Al stammered, “Then I—I test him?  To see if he’s really a witch?”  Even though that was exactly what Al had spent so long preparing to do, the thought of actually doing it, of possibly taking a man’s very life into Al’s hands alone, frightened him.

Phasma lifted her pale eyebrows and said, “Yes.  Test him to see if he’s really a witch.  If you determine he is not, you’ll release him, return here, and make your report.  On the other hand, if the tests prove positive, you’ll need to see that Llewyn Davis is executed.”

 _Executed._   Al’s face felt hot again, but not from a blush this time.  Instead, the heat came from anxiety. _You knew it would be like this,_ he scolded himself, _you knew you’d have to kill the witches if you found any._

“Yes, mistress,” Al whispered.  Phasma pressed her lips together and looked at him in a way that made him feel she was judging his reticence, but then she nodded and wished him luck.  However, Grievous’s reaction startled Al, once Phasma had taken her leave of them and the two men were on their way back to the barracks where most of the lower-ranking male hunters lived.

“You don’t have to execute him yourself,” the older hunter commented to Al.  At the moment, Grievous walked without the aid of the cane he sometimes carried, which meant he was having a relatively pain-free day that boded well for the morrow’s travel.  Perhaps that was why he had taken pity on Al, although the younger man realized a moment later Grievous completely misunderstood his discomfort over the thought of killing Llewyn Davis.

“I. . . just hadn’t thought that far ahead, until Mistress Phasma brought it up,” Al muttered.

“Understandable—it’s your first solo assignment,” nodded Grievous.  “And if by some far chance this. . . Llewelyn or whatever _is_ a witch and not just a shitty musician, you’re welcome to run him through yourself if he’s not a threat.  But if he’s strong, remember you’re only obligated to hunt him and test him—you can return to the council after that, and leave him for the town to deal with.”

“Right,” sighed Al, and he tried to return the conspiratorial smile Grievous gave him before they parted ways for their own bunks.  Al had no intention of leaving the distasteful work of witch-killing to someone else, should things progress that far: he had signed up to be a witch hunter, and he was determined not to shirk any aspect of the job whether from cowardice like Grievous or from guilt.

 _Maybe he really isn’t a witch,_ Al hoped as he lay in his bunk, as sleepless as he’d been that first night away from home in the city.  _Surely Grievous is right, and he’s just a bard who can’t sing, someone who stays where he’s not wanted, someone people are always trying to get rid of.  Someone with a language and a heritage and customs they don’t understand.  I’ll go and do the tests, and he’ll just be an ordinary man, and I’ll come back and make my report, and that will be the end of it.  I won’t have to kill anybody._

As much as Al wanted to believe it, he slept poorly that night, and he worried all the next morning as he bid farewell to Phasma and Grievous when they began their journey in the opposite direction from Malden, headed toward whatever matter Phasma found so urgent.  Al saddled up his gelding; double-checked the pack which held his pistol, Bible, testing supplies, and few other belongings; then mounted his horse and set out in pursuit of Llewyn Davis.

\--

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a map of where things take place in this verse; it's basically a fictionalized/fantasy version of late-1600s Massachusetts.
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/d2UJatW)


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Al reached Malden, late that evening, Llewyn Davis had already moved on.  Al spent the night there and set out for the settlement of Woburn next morning.  To his relief, the innkeeper at Woburn told him that yes, a man named Davis had arrived there the day before, and that he had entertained the other guests and some of the townsfolk the night before by singing.

“Was he any good?” Al asked over the cup of hot tea he had purchased in the small attached tavern to help win the innkeeper’s favor.

“Tolerable,” the aging man shrugged, “leastwise what I could understand of it.  Half of it was in some furrin words, though, not much to my likin’.  If you’re wantin’ to hear it for yourself, I told him he could sing again tonight if he wanted.  It draws in enough of the locals to buy food and drink, that I can afford to give him free room and board for the night.  Then some of them give him a little extra coin as well.”  The innkeeper busied himself wiping off the tables; it was already mid-afternoon, and although Al was the only patron at the moment, others would likely be in soon.

The innkeeper glanced back at Al, then asked, “What’s your interest in this Davis, anyhow?  You know him?”

Al’s wit wasn’t quick enough for him to invent a lie, and he shook his head.  When he realized the other man still expected an answer, Al muttered, “I’ve been hired to find him.”

“Oh?”  The innkeeper stopped cleaning and turned to face Al head-on.  “Has he done somethin’ wrong?”

“No, nothing like that,” Al stammered.  Still, the innkeeper kept watching him with growing suspicion, and Al felt as if he were digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.

“Perhaps I should be tellin’ Davis he can’t stay another night,” the innkeeper said after a moment, “nor you either.  ‘Tisn’t safe to have secrets in these times.”

Al sighed and mumbled, “I’m only here to make _sure_ he hasn’t done something wrong.  I’m—I’m a witch hunter.”

“A _witch_ hunter?”  The innkeeper dropped the rag he’d been using to clean and stared at Al so hard, Al feared the older man was about to drive him right out of the inn.  But then he only muttered, “Then you’re doing the Lord’s work, son.  But you mean to tell me that scrawny little bastard—pardon, that man’s a witch?”

“No, like I said, he hasn’t done anything,” Al insisted.  “There’s only been some. . . rumors following him around, so the Hunters’ Council has sent me to investigate.”  When the innkeeper nodded, a bit calmer than before, Al asked, “Please, I understand what you mean about not having secrets, but could you keep mine just for tonight?  I only need to listen to him sing, then to perform a few brief tests, but if Davis receives any forewarning, he could escape.  And of course your patrons could be frightened away if they hear a witch may be nearby.”

“Aye,” muttered the innkeeper.  “Don’t worry, we’ve had a witch scare before.  I know better than to encourage more talk.  You’re welcome to stay here for the night, so you can watch him and make your tests.  Tomorrow, though, I want him gone, witch or no witch.  I can’t afford to have a man like that stayin’ round here too long.”

Al paid in advance for his room and board, which led the innkeeper to treat him almost kindly.  The old man’s wife made an outright fuss over Al— _probably because she knows I have money,_ he thought, since that was usually the only reason anyone ever liked him—and brought him fresh tea while she and her daughters cooked that night’s supper.

While he waited on the meal and the guests it would bring in, Al looked at the notes he’d taken based on the reports made about Llewyn Davis.  Al wrote all his remarks down in Hebrew as a precaution against them being deciphered should anyone intercept them.  He was rather proud of coming up with that idea, although it did mean he had to keep his papers hidden from anyone who might recognize the writing _as_ Hebrew and not some personal code.

Al’s notes indicated that besides the repeated accusations that his Welsh songs were actually spells, evidence existed that Davis might be what Grievous termed an “incubus.”  The first time the elder hunter had used that name in reference to an accused male witch, Al had panicked and asked, “You mean we’re dealing with a _demon_?”  Grievous had stared at him then broken down into a fit of mixed laughter and coughing that left him unable to speak for several moments.  When he recovered, he explained to the humiliated Al that he wasn’t referring to a literal rapacious demon but the sort of charming young man who took many lovers. . . and when some of those lovers turned up with child some months later after the young man was long gone, they would claim he’d impregnated them through witchcraft rather than by more traditional means.

Two such claims had been leveled at Davis, regarding two women in two different towns.  One was a married woman who suffered a miscarriage.  When the time of conception was reckoned and found to be during a period when the goodwife’s husband had been away on a hunting trip, she accused Davis of cursing her when he had passed through the area around the same time.

The other claim had been made by the parents of an unmarried girl who gave birth to a healthy baby girl and insisted on keeping and raising her daughter against the wishes of her family, rather than sending the child away to an orphanage in the city.  The girl refused to name any man as her baby’s father, despite the urging of her parents and minister; however, her parents remembered Davis paying special and—so they claimed—unwanted attention to their daughter when he came to their village the year before.  They declared he must have cursed her, not because they had any proof but because there was less shame in having a cursed daughter than in having one who had borne a child out of wedlock.  The girl’s village put more and more pressure on her to surrender her child, until she ran away with it out of fear they would take it from her and kill it for being the spawn of a supposed demon.  Neither she nor the child had been seen since.

Dusk began to fall before Al had finished reviewing what he’d written.  When he looked up from his scraps of paper, he found that he was no longer alone in the common room; several other people of all ages and, it seemed, walks of life had already gathered, most of them near the large fireplace where the innkeeper had built up the fire.  Winter had come early that year, and now that it was just past All Soul’s Day, the inn was likely the warmest place in the entire village.  Al reflected that that that might have been enough to draw in a crowd, even without the travelling musician who offered a rare chance for some entertainment.

Al sipped at his tea, now grown rather cold, and scanned the patrons for anyone who looked like a Welsh musician and potential witch.  None of the men there fit the criteria; they all were either too old to be Davis’s age, or else they had the muscled builds of homesteaders instead of bards.  Al became distracted from his watch when the innkeeper and his wife brought out the evening meal.  The food was far superior to what he’d eaten in Malden the night before, and Al ate with relish until the goodwife interrupted him a few moments later.

“Pardon, Master Cody,” she muttered, “but there’s the man you’re seekin’.”

Al hid his irritation that the innkeeper had told even his wife about Al’s business, and he looked over at the man she indicated.  He looked nothing like what Al had expected; instead, he was small, dark, and rumpled, and he sat against a wall far from the fire and away from the other patrons.  The little man _was_ young, though, so Al supposed he really could be Llewyn Davis.  He hunched over a single bowl of what must have been soup or stew, instead of the full meal Al and most everyone else enjoyed, eating quickly while occasionally brushing dark brown curls of tangled hair from his eyes.

_No way possible **he’s** a witch,_ Al thought as he studied the untidy man’s gaunt, bearded face and the purplish rings that circled his dark eyes.  _Hardly possible he’s even Welsh—aren’t they all tall and blond and beautiful?  Perhaps he really can sing, but he must use a false name, and the reports are mistaken about the language he sings in. . . ._

Davis’s eyes flicked up from his meal to dart around the room, amazing Al with the disdain and contempt they held for the people surrounding him.  Al couldn’t tell their exact color from that distance, only that they were dark and bitter.  Finally, Davis’s gaze reached him, and the smaller man’s mouth curled into an outright scowl when he found Al watching him.  For an instant, Al panicked because he thought the innkeeper must have actually warned Davis that Al pursued him as a witch; the look he gave Al held that much hatred.  But then when Davis lowered his head and returned to his meal, Al realized he only resented being stared at, as anyone might.

Al had forgotten all about the innkeeper’s wife until she goaded him by asking, “Well?  D’ye think he really is a witch?  He’s an odd, disagreeable man, to be sure.”

“I can’t tell if someone’s a witch just by looking at him,” Al mumbled.  He glanced once more at Davis’s scant meal then asked her, “Why does he have so little to eat?”

“He’s lucky he has anythin’ at all, because he hasn’t got the money to pay for it.”  Her tone came across as rather defensive even as she gave Al a defiant look.

“But your husband said he gave Davis free room and board—”

“Aye, and that was generous considerin’ what his singin’ sounds like,” the goodwife grumbled.  Al sighed and offered her a little more of the money he carried in his own purse, hidden inside his cloak.

“Give him what you’ve given me, and the rest of the lodgers,” he said.  “I’ll pay for it.”

The woman stared at him, although she took the money quickly enough.  “Here, now—why?”

_Because I’m too soft-hearted, like my family was forever telling me,_ Al thought, _then Grievous after them._   Aloud, he replied, “Because if I do have to perform any tests on him, he’ll need the strength.”  The goodwife muttered dubious assent and departed, but a few minutes later, Al saw her bring more food to Llewyn Davis—the same roasted meat and vegetables Al and the other patrons had to eat, along with something to drink.  Al tried not to be nosy, but he couldn’t resist sneaking glances to see how Davis reacted.  Mostly, the bard appeared bewildered, and he seemed to be demanding to know who had ordered the additional food—and insisting that he wasn’t going to pay for it.  Al didn’t see the woman’s answer, but when he took one last look after a couple minutes, Davis was watching him again at the same time as he shoveled his additional supper into his mouth.

This time, the bard’s dark eyes were not hateful, just confused.  When their gazes met, Davis quit eating, shut his mouth, and swallowed.  Al wanted to look away but at the same time didn’t want to be rude, especially since he was beginning to feel guilty for being there at all.  The man clearly was no witch—based on what the innkeeper’s wife had said, Grievous’s theory was correct, and Davis was just a terrible singer with bad luck (except, it seemed, with women).  He didn’t need Al there to turn the innkeeper or any other townsfolk further against him.

Al managed a little smile as an apology for staring.  Davis’s heavy, black eyebrows had been lifted in puzzlement, but when he saw Al’s smile, they lowered, as did the thick lashes that fringed his deep brown eyes.  He smiled back—not a big smile either, but a secretive one.  Al felt his face burn, and he dropped his eyes to his empty tin plate.

Ashamed, Al thought, _He shouldn’t smile at me like that when I’m here to test him for being a witch, and to kill him if I find him guilty.  . . . He shouldn’t smile at me like that, because I’m not a woman like those poor creatures he seduces then leaves behind to suffer the consequences._

Not long after that, the innkeeper’s wife began to clear the supper dishes, and her husband passed around tankards of ale.  Al demurred but took more tea.  Llewyn Davis accepted the ale, as well as some tobacco rolled in a paper when another patron offered him that.  Pretending to read his Bible so that he wouldn’t be bothered or drawn into conversation, Al watched the other man smoke and drink as surreptitiously as possible, until Davis finally rose from the bench at his table and got to his feet.  He took up a bundle that must have been lying beside him, which Al hadn’t noticed before; then Davis moved to sit in a more prominent spot in an arm chair beside the fire.  The large chair dwarfed him, and although it was rough-hewn and far from elegant, it made Davis appear even scruffier than he had at table.  His clothes—a threadbare coat, shirt, and breeches—were ragged and ill-fitting, and his boots scuffed.  He certainly hadn’t made his fortune with his voice.

Yet perhaps it wasn’t quite so terrible as the innkeeper’s wife had intimated, for many of the patrons turned toward him expectantly, as if eager to hear his performance.  Davis seemed aware of this, and the little smile played over his shapely lips, half-hidden by the unkempt beard as he unwrapped his bundle.  It contained his instrument, a rectangular stringed thing to which Davis applied a bow.  Al winced when he first heard the tones; the instrument sounded strange to him, with a whining, droning quality that was not unpleasant yet which cried out with such poignant longing, it made Al ache inside.

And then Davis began to sing.  Reflecting on the performance later, Al understood how some might dislike it, but caught up in the moment, he himself found it marvelous.  Davis’s voice had a harsh, somewhat scratchy quality to it which matched, blended, and amplified his instrument’s sound, and it brought out feelings in Al which he had never found the words to express.  Like the instrument’s, Davis’s voice held the poignant, aching longing of wanting something indefinable which one might never find, much less obtain.

At first, Davis sang in English, and as far as Al could tell, no sort of spell could be hidden in the words.  Al wasn’t familiar with the song, having come up in a far different culture, but the other patrons seemed to know it well, and many of them sang the words along with Davis:

_The wind doth howl today, my love, with a winter’s worth of rain_   
_I never had but one true love, in a cold grave she was lain_   
_Oh, I adored my sweetest love, as any young man may_   
_So I’ll sit and weep upon her grave for twelve-month and a day_

Davis looked down at his instrument, and his own small hands upon it and the bow, as he sang.  In the light of the fire, Al could now see that the skin of Davis’s face and hands was a rich, warm tan usually only seen on the farmers in summer, not late in the year when the sun hung low in the sky most of the day.  (In contrast, when exposed to the sun, Al’s skin simply burned.)

_He’s not Welsh at all,_ Al thought for a second time as Davis sang on:

_With twelve-month and a day foregone, the dead began to speak:_   
_“Oh, who sits weeping on my grave and will not let me sleep?”_   
_“‘Tis I, my love, upon your grave that will not let you sleep_   
_For I crave one kiss of your lips, and that is all I seek.”_

_“You crave one kiss of my cold lips, but I am one year gone_   
_If you have one kiss of my lips, your time will not be long_   
_Let me remind thee, dearest one, a patient heart to keep_   
_For we professed eternal love that lives though I may sleep.”_

Al shivered at the dismal tale, although he supposed it was meant to be uplifting.  Davis continued singing some other songs in English, most of them equally melancholy, and though Al watched him closely, he noticed nothing suspicious.  Llewyn Davis was a better performer than Al had expected, but if the witch rumors hadn’t been started to drive him out of town because of bad singing, maybe they’d been intended to keep him away from vulnerable young women.

_And that is none of my concern,_ Al told himself, though he couldn’t help glancing about to take stock of how many attractive girls were there that night (quite a few, to his dismay).  He was wondering if he’d have to observe Davis’s seduction techniques to be sure no bewitching was involved, when the bard began another song—and Al realized he didn’t understand a word of it.

He didn’t know if the language in which Davis sang was Welsh or not, but it was no language Al had ever heard before.  He leaned forward on the table and studied the small man, himself leaning over his instrument with his well-formed lips calling forth words that might have been a magical spell, or might have been a song, or might have meant nothing at all.  A nervous tension moved through the people around them both.  No one understood Davis’s words, and none of them liked not understanding, even though the music was lovely.  Even though, Al realized, _Davis_ was lovely for the few moments during which he sang.  He lifted his eyes from his instrument, and they reflected the orange-gold of the fire as he looked into it and sang.  For the first time, Al thought that maybe there really was some magic in him.

Davis’s eyes shifted from the fire, past the other patrons, to Al.  He sang something, a phrase, as he met Al’s gaze, and the hunter felt a chill down his spine even while his face once again burned.  Yet he had no evidence that Davis had done anything worse than speak in a language Al did not know, nothing worse than if Al had spoken to him in Hebrew.

_Now I will have to test him,_ Al realized.  _There’s no way around it._

After singing only the one song in his strange language, Davis muttered that he was finished for the night.  A few of the patrons urged him to give them another song, but most seemed glad to have him done after hearing his last.  Al wondered if they had not heard what the innkeeper had called his “furrin” words the night before, or if they had forgotten just how eerie that music had sounded until they heard it again.  Worried that might be the case, Al took out his pencil and wrote down a few details for himself in Hebrew, first noting which songs Davis had sung in English then recording his behavior and the listeners’ reactions as he sang in Welsh or whatever his second language had been.

By the time Al glanced up from the small piece of paper which he’d crammed with the blocky characters printed right to left, Davis was gone from beside the fire.  Al looked to where he’d sat to eat his supper, but the bard wasn’t there either.  Then, finally, Al saw him.  Davis had already wrapped up his instrument and bow, and he carried the bundle under one arm as he threaded his way across the room, past the benches and tables. . . towards Al.

Al swallowed hard and fumbled to roll up his scraps of note paper.  He barely got them stowed into his cloak with the pencil before Davis reached him.  The smaller man had to have seen Al using the writing instruments then putting them away, but he ignored that; instead, he looked down into Al’s face and smiled the same small, secretive smile he’d had earlier.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.  And Al Cody, too soft-hearted to refuse, could only nod his assent.

\--

To be continued


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, _Benji,_ yes!”

At the sound of the passionate cry, Armitage Hux hissed and flattened his ears back against his head.  Sometimes he wished Poe Dameron had never found them—not that Hux disliked Poe or didn’t want his master to be happy.  He just missed the peace, quiet, and lack of loud sexual noises he had once enjoyed before Poe moved in.

Hux cast a glare back at the closed door leading to Kylo Ren’s small bedroom.  Kylo and Poe had gone to bed some two hours before but not, apparently, to sleep.  Now it was nearly midnight, and they were _still_ going at it.  Hux hissed and slunk to the front door of the little cottage where he and Kylo—and now, Poe—lived.  Kylo had latched it before he and Poe “retired,” but Hux was able to open it by crouching, then leaping up high enough to bat the latch loose with one paw.  When he landed on his feet, Hux pushed the door open and slipped outside.

The icy wind of early winter whipped the man-turned-cat’s ginger fur, and Hux squinted into it and twitched his whiskers.  He didn’t exactly _like_ being out in this kind of weather, but it was better than being _in_.  Hux bumped against the door until it was mostly closed; then he paced out to the shelter of his favorite tree, a large old oak near the corner of the cottage.  He still had several weeks before his next night of being human, and he would be even colder outside then.

 _But what’s the point?_ Hux sulked.  He licked one of his front paws and began to groom his whiskers moodily.  _What good does it do me to become a man for the night of the full moon, if I just spend the time out here alone under this tree?  It doesn’t get me any closer to becoming human again for good, and all I do is sit here—I might as well stay a cat on those nights too._   Hux growled and lay down beneath the tree, chin on top of his front paws.

 _I wish he’d never told me,_ the cat thought _. **Why** did he tell me, only to make fun of me?  How can I ever fall in love and convince that person to sleep with me, when I look like **this**?_   Hux could still hear the clear voice of Herne the Hunter, full of laughter, telling him, “I’ll wager the ‘falling in love’ part will be the most difficult, really.  I myself wouldn’t be adverse to, ah, deflowering you. . . .”

Cringing, Hux decided, _He **did** say it just to mock me.  After all, he laughed at me. . . ._   Yet Hux’s mind kept returning to the sound of the Hunter’s voice, the glow of his golden eyes and the sight of his handsome face.  Everything about Herne had been wild, wild and beautiful: his body, his hair, even the antlers which sprouted from his skull and which Herne had hung with garlands of beads and dried flowers.  When Herne had spoken of lying with Hux, even mockingly, even with that white-toothed grin that still tormented Hux’s dreams—for a moment, Hux had imagined it.  He had thought of what it might be like to lie in human form under the feral ghost, to clench his fingers over the antlers and hold Herne’s beautiful head down and kiss that fierce mouth, to be. . . to be _bedded_.

Hux couldn’t picture it clearly.  He had been quite young when Kylo accidentally cursed him, and Hux had never lain with anyone, woman or man.  But Hux knew quite well what Herne meant by “deflower,” and he understood how the act must work between two men.

 _And if I didn’t, I’d learn quickly enough from being forced to hear Kylo and Poe doing it at all hours of the day and night._   Hux growled again at the thought of them and swished his tail. _Maybe I should just leave.  Just run away, far enough away so that the spell binding me as Kylo’s familiar loses its strength.  I’ll grow old and die, and this nightmare will all be over.  Better to be dead than to be trapped in this cursed body for another forty or fifty years._

_Better to be dead than to be alone._

Despite the cold, Hux dozed there under the tree for a short time.  When he started awake about half an hour later, he wasn’t sure what had shaken him from his sleep.  Some sound—but now all was quiet.  He could hear nothing from the cottage, and the rest of the world lay silent around him.

But then— _there_.  A creaking sound, and a rustle.  Hux sat up and cast his eyes about him as his ears pricked forward.  He could see in the dark, one small blessing of being a cat, yet he saw nothing amiss. . . until he looked back over his shoulder at the forest which abutted Kylo’s cottage.  The branches of the trees on the woods’ edge shook; then something emerged.

Hux hissed sharply and turned to face the forest, tail twitching behind him in a warning.  Not that a small cat could do much against a trespasser, even for all of Hux’s teeth and claws, but he felt he had to try his best to defend his home and his master. . . and his master’s lover.  Poe was now Hux’s responsibility too.

When Hux’s eyes focused on the thing approaching him, he did not immediately trust his vision.  He saw a horse shambling forward with a rider mounted on its back—a  rider wearing antlers on his head.

Hux crouched and hissed again, certain that it could not be Herne who appeared there before him.  Surely no one would have summoned the Wild Hunt, not on an ordinary night, and anyhow, the Hunter wasn’t _hunting_.  His horse moved quietly, still at a walk as it came closer.  And then Hux could see the unmistakable red glow of the horse’s eyes, and the golden glow of the eyes of its rider.

At the same moment, Hux heard the laugh he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind for days, and Herne called out, “‘Tisn’t the welcome I’d hoped for, being hissed and spat at!  And I even left my hounds behind this time.”

 _Herne,_ Hux tried to say, but of course he only meowed.  Yet Herne seemed to understand him, and the Hunter was smiling when he dismounted from his horse a few yards away.  Hux flinched closer to the ground and glowered at the antlered ghost who walked nearer to stand over him.  Herne looked down at the cat with his bristling ginger fur and ears flattened to his head, and the Hunter’s smile faded.  In fact, his expression became almost sad.

“Are you frightened of me, Hux?  I haven’t come for your master, if that’s what troubles you,” Herne murmured.  He dropped to a crouch about a foot away from Hux; the swell of his thigh muscles strained the seams of his suede breeches and only reminded Hux of all the depraved desires Herne’s mockery had raised in him.  Hux cowered not from fear but from shame, and he turned his head aside so he wouldn’t have to look at the source of his torment.

 _Why should I feel such joy at seeing him again?_ Hux accused himself.  _What right have I?_   Then Herne sighed with a sound like the cold wind rattling the bare tree branches of Hux’s favorite oak.

“You truly meant it, didn’t you, when you said you hoped we’d never meet again?  I thought you were trying to be witty,” the ghost lamented.  Hux rolled his eyes; the comment was so very like something Kylo would say in one of his more dramatic moments.  At the same time, Hux hoped Herne didn’t actually believe it.

 _I thought I meant it, at the time,_ Hux thought, _but I did not.  I didn’t mean it at all._   He meowed and turned his face back toward Herne, then after a moment’s hesitation, swallowed his pride and bumped one of the Hunter’s hands which dangled from where he rested his forearms over his muscular thighs.  Herne looked down at him and flexed his long fingers, then crooked them over the side of Hux’s head and scratched behind one ear.  Hux promptly melted.

 _Damn scratching, always my weakness,_ he lamented as he heard himself begin to purr.  He cursed himself for that, too, but the response was completely involuntary.  After years of almost no physical contact from any living being, the touch of an affectionate hand brought even the aloof cat, who had once been an equally aloof man, great happiness.  Even Kylo had rarely touched him over the long period of time they’d spent together, and until Poe’s arrival, the only affection Hux ever received was an occasional petting and saucer of milk from Kylo’s mother, Mistress Organa.

But then Poe, who was naturally warm and open with his feelings, had come to stay.  He petted, stroked, and scratched Hux with regularity, and to Hux’s great embarrassment, he discovered that such attention turned him into an incurable _purrer._ . . especially when he was scratched behind his ears.  And that was exactly the spot Herne had discovered just now.

The Hunter chuckled, “Now _that_ is the greeting I’d hoped for.”  He kept scratching with that hand and used the other to stroke the short, silky orange fur along the top of Hux’s head and the side of his neck.  Hux cast his eyes up in what he tried to turn into a glare, but he was startled into staring instead when he found Herne watching him with an almost tender look in his own golden eyes.  Hux gave a faint, questioning “meow.”  He wasn’t quite sure what he even wanted to ask, maybe why Herne had come back or why the Hunter was looking at him that way.

Herne didn’t answer either question; instead, he asked one himself: “Do you wish to become human for a while?”

Hux made an irritated growling noise— _well of course I do, do you think I **enjoy** being a cat?_ —but then he remembered that becoming human meant being left unclothed on a very cold night, in front of Herne.  He drew back, away from the Hunter’s large hands, and shook his head.  Herne frowned as if both disappointed and hurt, then smiled again just as quickly.

“I brought something for you to wear,” Herne told the embarrassed cat.  “Just a moment!”  He bounded to his feet—there really was no other way to describe the graceful motion with which he stood, almost exactly the way a stag would move—and went back to where his horse stood quietly.  Herne took some kind of garment from the pack behind his saddle and brought it back to Hux, then dropped it over the cat.  Hux growled again at finding himself smothered and clawed his way out from under what proved to be a lovely, but heavy, fur-lined cloak.  Herne was sitting on the ground before him and laughing when the cat finally emerged.

“‘Tis your own fault for being such a prude,” the Hunter snorted.  “But there, now you won’t be naked when you change forms, more’s the pity.  But I suppose ‘tis rather cold tonight for a mortal.”  Even he wore a vest that covered his chest, although his arms were still bare.  Hux gazed at them (especially at their thick muscles) then up at Herne’s antlers wreathed with strings of beads and feathers.  The garlands hung down into the tousled strands of Herne’s golden-brown hair, which fell down his back past his shoulders.

 _He’s vain, and he has gaudy tastes,_ Hux decided.  Yet the cloak was nice, not to mention quite warm, and Hux couldn’t quite stop himself from nuzzling it as he imagined how the soft fur would feel against his bare, human skin.

“Well?” prompted the Hunter.  “’Twill it do?”  When Hux mewed and nodded, Herne smiled and made some arcane gesture with his fingers.  Hux felt the momentary tingling sensation he always got upon transformation; then he was a man again.  A cold man, despite the cloak covering his torso and lap, because his lanky legs, bony shoulders, neck, and head were all exposed to the frigid air.

Herne beamed as if he’d cured all the world’s ills instead of temporarily lifted a curse that affected no one except the cursed bastard himself.  Hux felt his face flush with heat, despite the cold, and he pulled his legs under the cloak before drawing the garment up over his shoulders as well.  Only when he was certain as much of his body was covered as possible, Hux looked up into the Hunter’s face again.

“Wh-why are you here, if not for Kylo Ren?” he rasped, then immediately cursed his weak voice.  It always sounded scratchy from lack of use just after he transformed.  Hux cleared his throat and added, “Did someone summon you on such an ordinary night?”

Herne tilted his magnificent head back and laughed so hard, the beads clattered in his headdress.  Hux flushed all over again and wrapped the cloak tighter about himself.  When the Hunter’s laughter finally calmed, Herne pushed his hair back then leaned forward with his weight braced on one hand against the dead oak leaves littering the ground.

“I am summoned very, very rarely,” Herne said.  He still smiled, but not so widely now; the smile was almost tender again.  “Not that I must be summoned to lead the Wild Hunt, but without the proper ritual to assign us a target, I don’t allow my men to hunt living human quarries.  There are plenty of troublesome poltergeists and revenants for us to bring down instead.”

Hux’s reply came out more sharply than he intended: “Did you come here hunting revenants then?  Because although I’m no witch, I’ve noticed nothing that suggests we’re being haunted.”

Unfazed by Hux’s sardonicism, the Hunter told him, “No, I came here to see _you_.”

“Me,” Hux echoed.  He feared he was blushing again, and worse than that, he felt his heart beat faster beneath the warm cloak.  “Why?”

“You intrigue me.  Just how _did_ a witch—a Skywalker no less—manage to turn a beautiful young man like you into a cat, _accidentally_?  And without knowing what it would take to lift the curse?”  Herne shook his head so that a loose strand of hair fell alongside his rugged face.  “And then he makes you his familiar and binds you to him so that you’re forced to stay at his side for the rest of your lives.  That pretty little witch hunter seemed to be quite smitten with Ren, but are you certain this whole. . . cat thing didn’t happen because Ren is obsessed with _you_?”

That time, Hux was the one to break down into laughter, after he’d stared at Herne for a few seconds in shock.  After more than ten years of hearing Kylo Ren mooning after Poe Dameron, his soulmate and the beautiful boy from his dreams, the idea that Kylo could love anyone else struck Hux as hilarious.  The idea that Kylo could love _him_ was even more ludicrous.

“Believe me, you could not be farther from the truth,” Hux sighed when his laughter had calmed.  “But did you really come all the way from—from wherever you abide, out of curiosity about _me_?  Did you really—”  He fell abruptly silent when he realized exactly what Herne had said.  _Did you really think that I am beautiful?_

“And what if I did?” Herne countered.  He leaned a little closer toward Hux and persisted, “If I did come all the way from Windsor Forest, in England—which is where I abide, if you really wondered about that—just to see you. . . what would you say to that?”

Embarrassed, Hux turned his face away and huffed, “I’d say you’re even madder than I previously thought.  Aside from the curse, there is nothing at all interesting about me.”  Yet when he thought of Herne agreeing and going away, of himself being left alone once more, Hux suddenly didn’t care even if the Hunter was there only to mock him or to amuse himself at Hux’s expense.  He wanted Herne’s company no matter what the reason.

“But if you want to know my story, such that it is, I will tell you,” Hux murmured.  He glanced back at the ghost with a look that was half shy and half defensive, but Herne still watched him with that nearly gentle expression.

“I do want to know, if you wish to share it with me.”  Herne reached out the hand not bearing his weight and cupped Hux’s chin with his fingers.  Hux shivered.  He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched his bare human skin.  In response, Herne leaned even closer and asked, “Are you cold?  I suppose it must be a shock to go from having fur, to suddenly _not_ having it.  I could sit closer to you and keep you warm.”  He stroked his fingertips along Hux’s jawline and smiled—rather more seductive now than tender.

Hux averted his eyes once more and said, “I don’t see how—you are a ghost.  How can you be warm?”

Herne countered, “How can I be anything at all?  Even after more than two hundred years, I don’t know how the magic works.”  Then he chuckled and teased as he drew back his hand, “But if you won’t allow me to hold you, my proud tiger, then I’ll content myself with sitting by your side while you tell me your tale.”  Hux kept still while Herne shifted to sit on the leaves beside him with his broad back to the trunk of the old oak.  In truth, Hux would have liked to lean against the ghost or even to feel the Hunter’s muscular arm about his shoulders.  No one had ever _wanted_ to touch Hux before, at least not while he was a human; even Kylo always avoided it as much as possible.  (Although, to be fair, Kylo also avoided touching everyone else, including his own family.  Apparently Poe was the only person he liked to touch—unfortunate that he liked it so _very much_.)

Yet Hux had begun to suspect an ulterior motive to Herne’s visit, a motive that both thrilled and offended him.  Surely in over two centuries, a world-traveling ghost had met far more intriguing creatures than Hux, and Herne _had_ spoken of being willing to “deflower” him.  What if he had appeared that night with the sole intention of seducing Hux—not, of course, to break the curse since that would require love, but just as a diversion. . . a somewhat unusual conquest to break the monotony of Herne’s long nights between hunts?  Maybe he’d never bedded a cursed man-cat before and wanted to see what it was like.

While part of Hux felt a righteous indignation at the idea, another part simply scoffed at it.  _Really?_ he asked himself.  _Why would he ever want **you**?  That you entertained the idea, even for a moment, that he means any of what he says, shows you’re as big a fool as they always said you were._

“Well?” Herne prompted when Hux still did not speak.  So, keeping his head and eyes turned downward toward the fallen leaves, Hux related how he had grown up shunned by the rest of the settlement, because while his father was the richest farmer in the area, his mother was not his father’s wife but only one of his servants.  Hux had long since quit feeling shame over that or at being called a bastard, so telling Herne of his heritage caused him no embarrassment—and anyhow, what right did a ghost with antlers sprouting out of its head have to judge _him_?

That part of the story only mattered because it explained why Hux was friends with Kylo Ren, who at that time still called himself Ben Solo.  Ben was a strange and disagreeable boy—and probably would have been so even if he had not been a witch, Hux pointed out—and since none of the other children would associate with either of them, Kylo and Hux came to spend much of their time together.

When he saw the look Herne gave him at that point in the tale, Hux glared and snapped, “I tell you, there was never any kind of—of passionate feeling between us!  Kylo began seeing Poe Dameron in his dreams when they were only little children, and he has loved Poe for almost as long.  But neither of us had any friends, and I hadn’t even the love of a family except what little time my mother could spare me—so Kylo and I needed each other, just in a different way than what you’re thinking of.”

Somewhat to Hux’s surprise, Herne looked chastened and nodded as he said, “I can understand that.  Go on.”

Hux told the Hunter how Kylo had wanted to join the coven of Dark witches hidden in the forest near the settlement where the boys lived, and how angry he’d become when Hux argued against his decision.  Thinking that Hux didn’t believe he was powerful enough to hold his own against the other witches, Kylo cast a curse upon him, to show Hux just what he could do.

“And then he couldn’t change me back,” Hux muttered, his gaze fixed again on the ground.  “Eventually, I believed him when he swore that he thought the curse was just temporary.  But I hated him for a long, long time.  I still hate him a little.”

“I can understand that, too,” said Herne.  He spoke wryly, but Hux caught an undertone to his voice that made him look up at the Hunter’s face.  Maybe Hux’s superior hearing as a cat had rubbed off on his human sense, or maybe he could just _tell_.

“A Dark witch cursed you, didn’t he?” murmured Hux.  “Goody Kanata—a woman from the village—told us the legend about you.”

Herne chuckled.  “A legend, about me?  ‘Tis flattering, to be sure.  But yes, he was a Dark witch that cursed me. . . although I think ‘twas more to it than that, because it takes a mighty powerful curse to follow a man for centuries after death.”

“More to it?” Hux pressed him.  “What do you mean?”

But Herne shook his head and laughed, “No, you won’t distract me from your story by asking me mine, especially since it seems you’ve already heard most of it.  You can ask me all the questions you want the next time I come to see you, but for now you have to tell me the rest—why did Ren force you to become his familiar?  Surely he knew how you resented him for what he’d done?”

Hux sighed, “He did not force me, I agreed to it. . . as odious as I found the idea at the time.  I knew it was the safest thing for me, because as Kylo’s familiar, my life is bound to his.  It protects me so that even when I am trapped in the form of a cat, I age as a human would, and I can survive injuries that would kill a small animal.  Kylo’s magic shelters me, as long as I stay fairly close to him.  If we are separated by more than about a mile, our bond weakens, so I had to enter the coven with him.”

“Was it very terrible for you?” Herne asked.  Hux studied him and decided his concern was sincere.

“No.  Living out here would have been no better,” Hux told him.  “My mother was dead by then, and no one else cared for me.  When I disappeared, a rumor began that Kylo had murdered me, either on accident through black magic—not that that was so far from the truth—or as a sacrifice in some Dark ritual.  But no one was really concerned about it for _my_ sake, only because it gave them another reason to hate Kylo.  So it was best for both of us that we go into the coven.”

“But the witches weren’t cruel to you?”

Hux shook his head.  “No, Kylo was their golden child for a long time, until the last year or so, and they treated me well because he is my master.  If any of them recognized that I was more than a cat, they did not say so, and we were careful that I kept hidden on every full moon.  But then Kylo had a falling-out with High Priest Tyranus, so we left the coven.  That was about a year ago.”  He sighed once more and finished, “We have lived here ever since. . . alone until the witch hunter found us.”

Herne lifted a hand and touched his calloused fingertips to Hux’s smooth cheek as he asked, “And in all that time, on those twelve full moons, you never found someone to love you?”  Hux felt a blush blossom beneath the Hunter’s fingers, but he scowled all the same.

“Until Poe came, no one but Kylo had seen me as a human in ten years,” he retorted.  “I told you, I had to keep hidden in the coven, and how could I explain things if I turned up suddenly in the settlement _now_?”  Hux turned his face away to escape from Herne’s touch and muttered, “Unless I travel to the nearest town each month and—and try to find a harlot or something who’ll sleep with me then fall in love with me, I’ll die a cat.  A very old cat, but a cat all the same.”

The Hunter was silent for a moment; then he laughed so loudly, Hux thought Kylo and Poe must be able to hear him inside the cottage.  Tears welled up in Hux’s eyes, but a second later, his fury at being mocked scorched them dry.  As Hux tried to scrabble to his feet and get away from him, Herne wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him in place, still chuckling.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t mean to awaken that fiery temper of yours,” Herne promised.  “‘Tis only that you’re so. . . so _well-trained_.”  When Hux growled and tried to pull away again, Herne hurried on, “I don’t mean as a familiar!  I mean from before all that—at least, I suppose that’s when it happened.  When your father and his household and all who dwell in that dreadful little settlement of yours taught you that you are undesirable.  And likely not just you, but Ren as well, and anyone else who might be different from them.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hux muttered, even though he knew perfectly well what the Hunter was talking about, and he resented it because Herne was right.  Herne just smiled and drew Hux a bit closer to him.  This time, Hux didn’t try to resist.

Herne murmured, “When I first saw you a few days ago, I told you ‘tis your attitude that will drive away the woman or man who would love you.  You won’t have to pay a harlot to bed you, I can guarantee you that much—and if you’ll only stop crying defeat before the battle’s even begun, ‘twill be more than your looks that drives your lover into your arms.”

“My looks,” repeated Hux with disdain, fixating on that because the rest of what Herne said was too much to contemplate.  “Hmph, perhaps I do make a rather handsome cat, but as a man, I’m hideous.  I’m frail and bony, and with my hair the color it is, some of the more superstitious townsfolk liked to whisper that I was cursed even _before_ it really happened.”

Now when Herne sighed, it sounded like the noise the wind made in the oak’s leaves in summer: warm and fond.  “My impossible Hux, your hair is like a flame, your eyes are like emeralds, and if you think you’re too thin, remember that you’ve only eaten enough to sustain a cat for the past decade.  Even magic cannot create matter or energy from nothing.”

Brow furrowed, Hux finally looked at the ghost again.  “What?”

“Never mind, just try to believe me when I say I find you quite desirable, and that many others would as well.”  Herne smiled at the petulant frown Hux gave him in response, then cajoled, “Will you do that for me, my tiger?  Will you try to think better of yourself?”

By that point, Hux wanted to argue just for the sake of refusing to give in, and perhaps for the chance to hear Herne’s further insistence that he found Hux attractive.  Yet the hour was late, and since Hux had not expected to stay awake all night as he did when the moon was full, he hadn’t rested during the day.  He had grown too tired to bicker any longer.

And, somehow, Hux found himself smiling at the Hunter’s name for him.

“I’m not a tiger,” he pointed out.  “I’m just a housecat.”  Herne smiled back, showing smooth white teeth that almost glowed in the light of the waning moon.

“Oh, you’re a tiger, all right,” the Hunter teased, “when your temper is up.  You’ve never seen a tiger, have you?”

“Of course not, I’ve never been farther away from here than the coven,” retorted Hux.  “Except. . . there is a picture of one, in a rare book Kylo’s mother owns.  He showed it to me once, when we were children.  It did look like a magnificent creature.”

“It is,” said Herne, “and so are you.  I will take you to see one someday, if you wish.”

Hux stared at him and breathed, “You—you can do that?  But how. . . .”

Herne grinned and said, “I ride all over the world leading the Wild Hunt, so I can ride with you one night instead.  My horse will carry us both to India, and you can see all the tigers you want.”  He lifted his free hand and began stroking Hux’s tousled hair back from his forehead, but then the Hunter’s hand froze.  Herne’s golden eyes shifted away from Hux’s face to look past him, and Hux felt chilled when he saw how cold and hard they had gone.  Herne seemed to be looking and listening for something only he could sense, and Hux wondered if he had been summoned to hunt a new quarry.  It was the only explanation he could think of.

“Herne?” Hux breathed.  When the Hunter did not respond, did not in fact appear to have heard Hux at all, Hux started to draw back fearfully.  But then he felt it too—very distant and very weak, something magical but out of place.  Something frightening and wrong.

Hux shuddered, and finally Herne broke out of his trace somewhat, enough to pull Hux closer and fold both arms around him so that he was sheltered against the Hunter’s broad chest.  The sense of wrongness had grown stronger, but when Hux started to whisper “What—?” Herne shushed him.  The Hunter was listening again, so Hux fell silent, eventually succumbing to his desire to rest his head on Herne’s shoulder.  Despite his nervous fear, being in Herne’s arms gave Hux a feeling of being protected.

 _Whatever it is,_ Hux thought, _he will keep me safe._

Then the strange magical disturbance passed, and Herne’s stiffened body relaxed.  He tightened his embrace of Hux, then leapt to his feet without warning, sweeping Hux up to stand too.  Hux squawked in protest and scrambled to keep the cloak wrapped around himself.

“I’m sorry, but I must leave you,” Herne murmured with an apologetic, but distracted smile.  “There’s something—I felt something.”

“I felt it too,” Hux told him.

“Oh?  Then perhaps your curse has made you sensitive to magic,” Herne mused.

“But what _was_ it?”

Herne’s response was grim: “Someone messing with a type of magic they should leave well alone.  You know there’s more than just Light and Dark magic—for example, there’s Wild magic too, natural magic, the kind that draws its power from the Earth herself.  ‘Tis what gives me my strength, and there are some human witches who excel in it rather than in the Light or the Dark.”

“So is that what this person is. . . ‘messing with’?” Hux asked.  “Trying to cast a Wild spell?”

“Oh, no—would that it were so simple.  There’s another kind of magic yet.”  Herne chuckled darkly and turned Hux back toward Kylo’s cottage with an arm still around his shoulders.  “Come, I would feel better knowing you’re inside for the rest of the night.  I think you would be safe enough with Wild magic about, being part animal yourself, but on the slim chance something comes of this. . . .”  Hux felt like he should be offended at the implication he couldn’t take care of himself, but he didn’t want to be outside alone anymore anyway.

“All right,” he agreed, and he went back to the cottage at Herne’s side.  At the door, he turned to face the Hunter and looked up into the slightly illuminated golden eyes; although Hux himself was tall, Herne was taller.  Hux said in a smaller voice than he would have liked, “You should change me back now, so you can take your cloak with you.”

“Can you get back inside on your own?” Herne asked.

Hux gave him an exasperated look and told him, “Yes, I’ve been doing this for quite some time now.”  As Herne chuckled in response, Hux hesitated, wanting to ask if the Hunter would return another night but fearing to make himself that vulnerable. . . and fearing the answer would be no, despite the tale Herne had told him about riding halfway across the world to see the tigers in India.

And then Herne asked the question himself: “Hux, I would like to know you better, if you’ll let me.  I’m going to hunt for the witch, or whoever it is, causing the disturbance we felt, and I can’t promise I’ll be able to return to you within the next few nights.  But may I, when I am able?”

“If you wish,” said Hux, carefully.  Herne frowned.

“You may say no,” he pointed out.  “I am not your master like Ren is—you can refuse me.”

Hux averted his eyes, swallowed, then murmured, “I. . . would enjoy talking with you again.  I do want to hear your story, from you and not as some legend.”

Herne chuckled softly and said, “All right, then I will come back soon.  Until then, take care, my tiger.”  He caught Hux’s chin in his hand and pressed a kiss to his forehead; then before Hux could react, he found himself a cat once more—a cat now covered in a pile of fur-lined fabric, no less.  He growled and swatted at it with both front paws, trying to free himself.  Herne apparently found this quite amusing, for he laughed heartily as he swept up his garment and grinned at the irate Hux before abruptly turning on his heel and striding off toward his horse.  The Hunter leapt up into the saddle from a greater distance than any ordinary man could have managed, and as the horse took a step forward, it seemed literally to melt away into the night along with its rider.

 _What happened?_ Hux wondered as he stared at where Herne had just been.  _Was he really even here at all?_   But of course he was.  Cat or not, Hux was not in the habit of hallucinating.

He nudged open the cottage door and slunk back inside, then jumped up to grab the latch with his paws and wiggle it until it dropped closed.  Pleased to find the hearth still quite warm, Hux curled up in front of the luminous embers of the evening’s fire.  Until he drifted to sleep, he thought about the kiss Herne had given him and wondered how it might feel on his lips.

\--

A few minutes earlier, as Herne felt the magical disturbance that so concerned him, Poe had awoken from a nightmare.  In fact, he woke himself up by sitting upright in bed and gasping a word in a language he didn’t know: “ _Tân!_ ”

Poe shuddered, not from cold but from fear, and looked about him.  However, he could see nothing in the small bedroom where the single window was shuttered and Ben had extinguished the candle when they (finally) finished making love and went to sleep.  Poe put out his left hand until it rested on the broad chest of the other man still sleeping beside him.  Just touching Ben calmed Poe, yet the dream still troubled him.  It had not been one of their shared, lucid dreams but a true nightmare, and Poe feared it was portentous because he had dreamed about magic.

“Ben!” Poe murmured as he shook his lover’s shoulder gently.  When Ben didn’t stir, Poe sighed and gave him a firmer shake.  “ _Benji!_   Wake _up!_ ”

“Mmngh. . . Poe?”  Poe heard and felt Ben shifting toward him; then one of Ben’s arms slipped around Poe’s bare waist.  “Is something the matter?”

Poe suddenly felt a little ashamed for waking him—what if it _was_ only a dream?—but he mumbled, “I—I had a dream.  A bad one.”

“About your mother?”  Ben’s deep voice sounded drowsy, sympathetic but not particularly concerned.  Poe had had nightmares of his mother’s death before, after all.

“No.”  Poe took a deep breath then said, “I dreamed I was casting a spell.  A fire spell.”

He felt gratified when he heard Ben draw a breath too; then the other man pushed himself up to sit beside Poe.  Ben fumbled in the dark to take Poe’s hands in his before he spoke again.

“A spell, _you_?  Tell me.”

“That is all, really—just that I was frightened.  I believe I was in danger, although I don’t know from what, and to protect myself, I cast a fire spell.”  Poe’s hands tightened over Ben’s as he added, “It _worked_ , there were flames everywhere, surrounding me.  I can almost still feel the heat of them.  It was as if even though I was the one who had summoned them, they were out of my control.  I tried to stop them, I believe I was trying to cast a countering spell, but instead it came out wrong—I only cast the same fire spell again and again.  And then I awoke.”  Poe closed his eyes even though he could see nothing with them open, then leaned against Ben’s chest with his head on his lover’s shoulder.  “Ben, what does it mean?  I’m not a witch, I’m not sensitive to magic at all.  If—if my mother had been burned at the stake, I could understand why I would dream such a thing. . . but she was drowned.  So why would I dream of fire?”

Ben did not answer him, although he let go of Poe’s hands to embrace Poe instead.  He rubbed Poe’s back with one hand for a while, then suddenly asked, “How did you cast the spell?  With signs, or words, or objects. . . ?”

“Words,” Poe told him.  “Or _a_ word, rather.  At least, I believe so—it was in a language I don’t understand, if it was a real word at all.”

“What is the word?”

“It sounded like ‘tahn,’” said Poe, “and it meant ‘fire.’  It—it terrified me, but all it meant was ‘fire’. . . .”  His voice trailed off as he pressed his face into Ben’s neck; then he mumbled, “I’m sorry, Benji, I shouldn’t have awoken you.  It’s stupid, just a stupid dream.”

Ben hugged him tightly and whispered, “No, my dove, don’t be sorry.  Always tell me when you need me.”  He caressed Poe’s soft hair then lay back down, drawing Poe with him to lie in his arms before he continued, “And I believe dreams always have some significance.  Sometimes only minor significance, it’s true, but this—I think if you are dreaming of magic, it must be important.  I’m glad you told me, and please tell me if you dream anything like it again.”

“I will,” Poe whispered back.  He wasn’t certain that Ben wasn’t simply trying to comfort him, but he felt better all the same.  _And if there is anything to be frightened of, he will keep me safe,_ Poe thought as Ben drew their quilt up and tucked it close around them.  Soon enough, Poe was able to go back to sleep with his head still on Ben’s shoulder, wrapped in the protection of his lover’s arms.

Ben, however, remained awake.  While Poe was already dozing, Ben heard the faint creak of the cottage door, followed by the familiar clatter of the latch being knocked into place.  _Hux,_ _coming in,_ he thought, and then he frowned.  _But why now?  Why so late?_   He was used to the cat escaping outside whenever Ben and Poe were intimate, but Hux always returned as soon as things were quiet again in the cottage—or at least Ben assumed he always did, since on some nights Ben fell asleep immediately afterwards.  Why had Hux stayed outside in the frigid cold for so long?

 _That’s his business, not mine,_ Ben scolded himself.  _He has the mind of a human being no matter what he looks like on the outside, and I certainly can’t blame him for being discontented.  Especially not now that Poe’s here to remind Hux that he’s alone as well as cursed.  I’ll do Hux more good by giving him space than by worrying about him._

Besides, Ben had Poe’s dream to worry about instead.

\--

To be continued


	4. Chapter 4

As Llewyn Davis sat down on the bench beside Al, he said, “I wanted to thank you for paying for my dinner.  That was a very kind thing to do for a stranger.”

“You are welcome,” Al replied.  Llewyn’s dark eyes remained fixed upon him, and the smaller man’s steady gaze made Al nervous.  He faced forward and looked down at his empty mug instead as he added, “I thought it unfair that you were promised board but did not receive what everyone else did.”

“Fair. . . hmph.”  Compelled by the bitterness in those words, Al glanced up at Llewyn again.  Now he was the one glaring downward.

“I. . . I’m sorry?” stammered Al.  He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, but Llewyn seemed upset.  Then Llewyn’s face softened slightly, and he looked at Al again.

“No, you don’t need to apologize,” Llewyn assured Al.  “Only, if you’re looking for fairness in life, I pity you.  You won’t find much of it.”

_You have no idea what I’m looking for. . . that I’m looking for you,_ thought Al.  He resented the other man’s slight air of superiority, but Al kept quiet, lest he offend Llewyn and make his own job more difficult.

After a moment of silence, Llewyn asked, “So. . . what is your name?”

“Alfred Cody.  But usually I go by Al.  And you’re. . . Llewyn?”  Al pretended to be unsure.

“Yes.  Llewyn Davis.”  He smiled, the same secretive smile as before, and said, “I saw you watching while I sang.  Did you like it?”

Al felt his face grow warmer although he told himself he had no reason to be embarrassed.  Of course he had watched, as had everyone else.

He mumbled, “Yes, you—you have an excellent voice.  I was not familiar with all your songs, but I enjoyed them.”

“I’m glad you did,” Llewyn replied softly.  His eyelids hung low over his eyes, and he watched Al through his black eyelashes.

_His eyes are beautiful,_ Al realized.  Now he could understand how Llewyn had charmed so many women, and he wondered, _Why is he sitting here with me, instead of one of them?  Maybe he’s trying to get more money from me. . . ._

When Llewyn kept staring at him, Al fumbled for something to talk about.  Music seemed a safe enough topic, and perhaps he could learn more about the way Llewyn allegedly cast spells with his songs.

Al ventured, “I’ve never seen an instrument like yours before.  What is it?”  He was surprised when Llewyn’s face lit up, and his whole demeanor brightened.

“Oh, this?”  Llewyn put his bundle on the table and unwrapped it so Al could see the rectangular instrument inside.  “It is a crwth.”

“A—a krooth?”

Llewyn chuckled and said, “Close enough.  C-R-W-T-H. The English call it a ‘crowd,’ if that’s easier.  And if you want to talk like the _English_ ,” he added with a smirk.

“You don’t like the English, then?” Al asked, although he smiled too.  He’d heard of animosity between the English and the Welsh, but he wasn’t sure how true the stories were.  Llewyn laughed again and shrugged.

“Oh, they’re all right.  My mother’s sister married an Englishman—and my mother married a Welshman, so really I’m only a half-blood.  But I learned my father’s language and music and lore, and I consider them mine.”

Curious as to the nationality of Llewyn’s mother, Al asked, “Were you born in Wales?”  Llewyn shook his head, making the wild curls of his hair bounce.

“No, Boston.”  He wrinkled his nose, which was a bit large for his face yet far from as large as Al’s.  “I’ve never even visited Wales—or traveled out of the province, for that matter.  When I was young, I wanted to go there.”  Llewyn glanced away for a moment with a poignant wistfulness in his eyes and continued, “My father always said that old King Hal may have put our country under England’s control, but they could never control our people.”

“I believe that,” murmured Al, thinking of his own heritage.  Llewyn looked at him closely.

“So what about you, Al Cody?  Where do you come from?”  As he asked, Llewyn smiled at Al again, making the hunter decide Llewyn was sincere about wanting to learn more about him.

Al told him, “From Rhode Island.  I was born in Newport, on the actual island, but when I was very young, my family moved to Providence.  I don’t really remember anything from before that.”

Llewyn nodded.  “I can understand that.  I don’t remember much from when I was very young, either, just a little about being with my family.”

“Do they still live in Boston?  We aren’t so far from there—”  Al realized he shouldn’t have asked when he saw Llewyn’s face fall, and the smaller man pulled back from him as if withdrawing into himself.

“No,” Llewyn muttered, “they don’t still live there.”

Al fumbled to apologize, “I—I beg your pardon, I did not mean to intrude.”  When Llewyn gave him a curious glance, Al went on, “I haven’t talked very much with anyone in a few days, so I’ve been feeling a little lonely, I guess.  I just wanted to get to know you.”  He relaxed when the smile returned to Llewyn’s lips.

Llewyn assured him, “No, you don’t need to apologize.  I’m flattered you want to know me better.”  He lowered his eyelids again and gazed at Al in that strange way.  “If you really enjoyed my singing, I could sing some more, just for you.”

“I. . . uh, do you mean right now?”  Al looked around at the other tables, now nearly empty, and the fire burning low.  “I think they’re almost ready to close up for the night.”

“I can come to your room,” suggested Llewyn.  Al felt confused, not so much by Llewyn’s offer—clearly he saw an opportunity to make extra money with extra singing—but by his own reaction.  Even though he knew Llewyn was trying to take advantage of his generosity, Al wanted to accept.  He wanted to hear the rough, sweet sound of Llewyn’s voice blending with the music of the crwth, just for him alone.

Even though Al couldn’t really afford to spend money on a luxury, he would have agreed if not for one thing: he was a hunter, and Llewyn was his target.  Mistress Phasma had drilled into him that hunters must be fair during their investigations, and Al felt that it would be most unfair to be alone with an accused witch unaware of the charges against him.

_I feel guilty even thinking about it,_ Al realized as Llewyn looked up at him, expecting an answer.  _I’ve misled him already—I’ve got to tell him who I am. . . ._

Still, all he stammered to Llewyn was, “I-I’m afraid I don’t have enough money to pay you what you deserve for that.”

To Al’s surprise, Llewyn reached out and laid his hand on Al’s forearm.  His hand was smaller than Al’s, and it felt cold even through the sleeve of Al’s shirt.

“I think we can work something out,” Llewyn murmured.  Al stared down at him with flushed cheeks and a pounding heart.  Something about the touch of Llewyn’s hand and the tone of his voice made Al nervous and excited all at the same time.

“I. . . I don’t. . . .”

Llewyn chuckled at Al’s fumbling, squeezed his arm, then let it go and sat back.

“Never mind,” Llewyn said.  “We can learn more about one another first.  For instance, you know why I’m here—I travel from town to town, singing.  But what about you?  You’re very far from Providence.”

Al felt the blood drain straight away from his flushed face.  He muttered, “I—I’m traveling.  For my trade.”

Llewyn nodded and, when that did not encourage Al to continue, asked, “And what is your trade, Al?”

Al pressed his lips together and swallowed.  _I shouldn’t be so fearful to tell him—he will know what I am when I start testing him, and what does it matter if he is angry or afraid of me?  He doesn’t even have a reason to be afraid, unless he really is a witch._

“Al?” Llewyn prompted.  The smile had dropped from his scruffy face and his lovely eyes held the first hints of concern.

“I’m a hunter,” Al finally blurted out.  “I came here—tracking game.”

“A hunter,” repeated Llewyn.  Al watched miserably as the other man’s eyes grew colder and colder.  “What do you hunt?  What sort of game?”

“I. . . Llewyn. . . .”  Before Al could force any more words out, Llewyn’s expression became a definite scowl.  All the warmth and comradery he had shown just moments before vanished.

_No one but a witch would assume that is what I hunt, instead of any other kind of game.  And even if I misled him about being a hunter, **he** certainly hasn’t volunteered that he’s a witch, _ Al thought.  Those thoughts steeled his resolve, and the glower in Llewyn’s eyes made it easier to behave coldly in return.

With as much pride as he could muster, Al announced, “Witches.  I hunt witches.”

“You’re a monster,” said Llewyn, immediately.  “A fucking _monster_.”

Al hid his hurt in vitriol: “Why do you say that?  What have you done that makes you so hateful toward witch hunters?”

Llewyn spat, “Nothing!  Just like my mother did nothing, but your kind judged her a witch anyway!”  He got up from his seat next to Al and backed away as he continued, “And like her sister did nothing, but they judged her a witch too.  At least her death was quick—they drowned _her_ , but they burned my mother at the stake as I watched.  _That’s_ why she doesn’t still live in Boston.  She’s _dead!_ ”

Al could not speak.  The tumult of emotions inside him confused him too much to voice any of his thoughts.  He felt both horrified and guilty over what had happened to Llewyn’s family, yet angry at Llewyn himself, who blamed Al for something he had no part in.

Llewyn stared down at him, his upper lip curled slightly with disgust, until he realized Al was not going to respond.  Then he swept up the crwth and bundled it in its wrapping before turning away and storming up the stairs leading to the inn’s bedrooms.

“Llewyn. . . .”  Al’s lips formed the name, but it came out as only a whisper, and Llewyn did not hear him.  Al watched the smaller man—the witch?—until he had climbed out of sight without looking back.  Al waited nearly five minutes before leaving the table and going up to his own room, to make sure he wouldn’t see Llewyn in the hall.

_This changes nothing,_ the witch hunter told himself as he prepared for bed.  _If his mother and aunt were truly executed unfairly, I’m sorry for it, and sorry for him being made to watch._   (Al tried not to think about the possibility that it happened when Llewyn was still a child.)  _I still must test him, and pity has no place in that._

\--

As for Llewyn Davis, he muttered curses all the way to his room—but they were only words, not _actual_ curses.  He’d had misfortune with those before.

“Fucking lubber!” Llewyn hissed as he slammed his door shut and bolted it.  “Pretending to be so naïve. . . so _kind_.  And he’s really a murderer!”  He stood facing the door and seething, but at the same time, he hurt.  Not only had Al Cody been kind to him, he had pretended to be interested in Llewyn. . . pretended to be a friend.  That was something Llewyn had lacked for years, since he left his father’s home and began his long search.

Llewyn rested his forehead on the door and closed his eyes.  He thought of the way Cody had looked at him, how he had flushed and stammered when Llewyn touched him.  Yes, he looked awkward and clumsy with his long limbs and big ears, but Llewyn found him handsome as well, and his eyes. . . so dark they were nearly black, intense, almost possessive.  Like he had claimed Llewyn just by looking at them.

_He **did** claim me—but now I know why.  He heard the rumors and hunted me down and claimed me so he can kill me._

Llewyn shuddered and ground his palms against his closed eyes until the pain of withheld tears passed.  Then he focused only on the anger and hatred Al Cody had roused in him, and thought about what to do.

A curse might go wrong, as Llewyn’s usually did, and even if he cursed Cody successfully, it would be a stupid move.  For a witch hunter to encounter sudden bad fortune right after meeting his prey—Llewyn might as well sign a confession and turn himself in!  He would have to flee instead, and maybe then double back and track Cody until Llewyn got a chance to attack him in secret.

_Then it’s only a matter of time until another hunter comes.  They’ll keep coming after me as long as I’m anywhere in the colonies, and I can’t leave until I find Poe._  In despair at the futility of his plans, Llewyn growled, “I can’t do this alone!  But who would ever help a witch?  No one in _this_ world.”

He knew that meant he had to seek help elsewhere.  Not that Llewyn hadn’t tried before, but his summoning spell had never worked—it had never been strong enough to open the doorway between his world and another.  Yet he hadn’t attempted the spell in some time, so just maybe, he was now powerful enough to make it work.

Llewyn laid the bundle of his crwth and bow on the bed, and kicked aside the rest of his belongings lying on the floor so that he had an open space.  He crouched down to take a small nugget of sulfur from the pocket of his coat where it lay amidst his few other pieces of clothing, then knelt before the cleared space on the floor and began to draw.  As Llewyn dragged it over the rough wooden floor, the sulfur left behind a trail of pale yellow powder which, when Llewyn was finished, marked out a triskelion symbol:

 

Llewyn sat back and regarded the symbol a moment; then he closed his eyes and recited the chant his mother had taught him twenty years ago while they ran from Boston, hoping to escape the fate of Llewyn’s aunt and her little son, Poe.

_Along the shore the cloud waves break,_   
_The twin suns sink behind the lake,_   
_The shadows lengthen in Carcosa._

_Strange is the night where black stars rise,_   
_And strange moons circle through the skies,_   
_But stranger still is lost Carcosa._

_Songs that the Hyades shall sing,_   
_Where flap the tatters of the King,_   
_Must die unheard in dim Carcosa._

_Song of my soul, my voice is dead,_   
_Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed_   
_Shall dry and die in lost Carcosa._

Llewyn felt a surge of magic rise in response to his spell—not Dark nor Light magic, but the unearthly Chaos magic of the one he summoned.  Far away, Herne the Hunter froze and listened.  Poe Dameron dreamed he cast a spell in Welsh.  Llewyn opened his eyes, breathless, and beheld the Yellow Sign glowing with light from another place.

Then the magic faded away and the light went out.

“ _Fuck!!_ ” Llewyn shouted.  If he hadn’t been given a small attic room instead one on the hallway, he likely would have woken other guests of the inn.  No one came to his door, though, any more than to the doorway he’d tried to open.

“You said you’d help me when I needed it!” Llewyn mumbled to the symbol, even as he rubbed the sulfur powder with his hands to obscure what he’d drawn.  “You said to call, and you’d come.  Fucking liar, just like the witch hunter!”

Llewyn knew the fault lay with him for not being strong enough to open the way, but he had rather blame someone else instead.  _Someone who might not even be real,_ he reminded himself.  _I only met him in a dream. . . ._   But if he quit believing in the King, Llewyn wouldn’t have anyone left to believe in but himself.

Llewyn undressed and got into bed, where he lay awake for some time thinking of the last verse of the spell.

_Song of my soul, my voice is dead,_   
_Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed_   
_Shall dry and die in lost Carcosa._

\--

To be continued


End file.
